‘You told the neighbours you tried to revive him with CPR.’ She nodded. ‘I’ve seen it done on TV. But I’d no real idea what to do. So I just pressed with both hands on his chest, again and again, as hard as I could. Anything to try to restart his heart.’ Now she shook her head. ‘But there was nothing. No sign of life. I must have pumped his chest for two minutes, maybe more. It seemed like a lifetime. Then I gave up and tried mouth to mouth. I pulled his jaw down and held his nose and blew air into his mouth from mine.’
She looked at Sime, tears gathering in her eyes from the memory. ‘I could taste his blood. It was on my lips and in my mouth. But I knew in my heart it was no good. He was gone, and there would be no bringing him back.’
‘And that’s when you ran to the neighbours’ house?’
‘Yes. I think I must have been pretty hysterical. Cut my feet on broken glass on the way out. Couldn’t tell which was his blood or mine. I think I scared the McLeans half to death.’
The tears in her eyes spilled as she blinked, and rolled down her face in the tracks of their predecessors. And she sat staring at Sime as if waiting for the next question, or perhaps daring him to contradict her. But he simply returned her stare, half lost in the visualisation of her account, part of him in conflict with the scepticism his experience and training as a policeman engendered, part of him lost in human empathy. And still he was gripped by the compelling and discomposing sense of knowing her. He had no idea for how long they sat in silence.
‘Am I disturbing something here, Simon?’ Marie-Ange’s voice dispelled the moment, and Sime turned, startled, towards the door. ‘I mean, is the interview over, or what?’ She spoke in English, standing with the screen door half open and looking at him curiously.
Sime got to his feet. He felt disorientated, confused, as if he had somehow lost consciousness for a moment. His eye was drawn by a movement in the hallway beyond the stairs, and he saw Thomas Blanc standing there, an odd look in his eyes. He nodded mutely, and Sime said, ‘Yes, we’re finished for now.’
‘Good.’ Marie-Ange turned toward Kirsty Cowell. ‘I want you to come with me to the medical centre. We’ll take some photographs, the nurse will conduct a physical examination, and then you can get cleaned up.’ She looked at Sime, but he avoided her eye and she turned back to the widow. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’ She let the door swing closed and was gone. Sime glanced towards the hallway, but Blanc had returned to the bedroom.
Kirsty stood up, fixing him with a strange, knowing look. ‘Simon, she called you. You told me your name was Sheem.’
He felt unaccountably embarrassed. ‘It is. The Scots Gaelic for Simon. Spelt S-I-M-E. At least, that was my father’s spelling of it. It’s what everyone calls me.’
‘Except her.’
He felt the colour rising on his cheeks and he shrugged.
‘Lovers?’
‘My private life has no relevance here.’
‘Ex-lovers, then.’
Perhaps, he thought, fatigue and stress were simply making her blunt. She didn’t even look interested. But still he felt compelled to respond. ‘Married.’ Then he added quickly, ‘Past tense.’ And finally, ‘This interview’s not over. I’ll want you back after your medical exam.’ She held him in her gaze for a long moment before turning to push through the screen door and out on to the porch.
*
Sime followed a few moments later to find Marie-Ange waiting for him. The murdered man’s widow had climbed into the back of the minibus, Lapointe at the wheel, engine idling, the purr of its motor carried away on the wind. Marie-Ange stepped close to Sime in a gesture that might almost have seemed intimate had her body language been less hostile. She lowered her voice. ‘Let’s just get the ground rules straight right now.’
He looked at her with incredulity. ‘What rules?’
‘It’s simple, Simon.’ She had reverted to his formal name since the break-up. ‘You do your job, I’ll do mine. Except for when there’s a cross-over we have nothing to talk about.’
‘We’ve had nothing to talk about for months.’
Her voice reduced itself to a hiss barely audible above the wind. ‘I don’t want us getting into any fights. Not in front of my team.’
Her team. A reminder, if he needed it, that he was the outsider here. Her eyes were so cold he almost recoiled and he remembered how she had loved him once.
‘There won’t be any fighting.’
‘Good.’
‘But you can come and get the rest of your stuff any time you like. I really don’t want it lying around the apartment.’